


Speaking Lessons

by Lomonaaeren



Series: Eighth Year Professors [3]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Dirty Talk, Exhibitionism, Hogwarts Eighth Year, M/M, Magical manipulation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-12
Updated: 2017-07-12
Packaged: 2018-12-01 04:07:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11478282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lomonaaeren/pseuds/Lomonaaeren
Summary: Harry thought Malfoy was done with him after they had humiliated each other. He didn’t realize that a Malfoy’s desire dies harder than that.





	Speaking Lessons

**Author's Note:**

> Content Notes: Sex in public (sort of), magical manipulation, dirty talk, accidental voyeurism.

Harry really thought that was the end of it.  
  
Maybe he was stupid, he would tell himself later. But it  _felt_ like the end. Malfoy had distracted him in midair with sexual innuendos and delicate touches, and then taken the Snitch from him. Even if no one else knew what had happened between them, Harry and Malfoy did. And Harry knew that those touches didn’t display any genuine desire, either. Malfoy had done what he had to, to win. He was a Slytherin.  
  
Well, Harry was partially a Slytherin if you looked at him a certain way, and he was definitely a Gryffindor, who couldn’t let a Slytherin win and then go around bragging about it. He had to get Malfoy back. So he’d cornered him, and bound him to the wall with a conjured web, and then breathed on him and left him with his cock hanging out for the next professor on her rounds to find.  
  
It was exactly as much humiliation as Malfoy had given him, because, while no one else had seen Malfoy caress Harry in midair, they  _had_ seen him lose the game, and Harry’s teammates and Housemates had asked him all sorts of questions afterwards that he’d been unable to answer. Malfoy, meanwhile, had had to face the embarrassment of someone’s eyes, but only one person. And Harry hadn’t heard any rumors circulating about that, so he doubted that the professor had told anyone.  
  
Malfoy glared, of course. In a quiet way. He would stare at Harry, and the air between them would flare with anger, and Harry raised an eyebrow in an unconcerned fashion and turn away. Why should it continue? They both had what they’d wanted: a Quidditch victory and private vengeance.  
  
And yet, it continued.  
  
*  
  
Harry staggered down the stairs, wiping the sleep out of his eyes. The one morning he’d slept late would be the morning they had an important potion to brew, he thought, grumbling under his breath as he skidded into the Great Hall and grabbed a small piece of bread and an apple right before breakfast vanished. He bit into the apple and only half-chewed the bite as he ducked through the corridors, trying to remember how many steps it took him to get from the Great Hall to Slughorn’s classroom.  
  
Someone slammed into him.  
  
Harry reeled, juggled his food, and fetched up against the wall, staring. He hadn’t realized that anyone was there, and even less had he expected Malfoy looming up in front of him, his wand touching Harry’s Adam’s apple before it flicked delicately up to touch his chin.  
  
“You should have known that you would have to pay for what you did to me,” Malfoy whispered, and his eyes were wild and crazed.  
  
Harry braced himself for a Stinging Hex or something like that. He didn’t think Malfoy would dare try more, because they were in the middle of school, in the middle of the day, and someone would be bound to come through the entrance hall at any moment.  
  
Malfoy leaned closer, so close that his breath tickled Harry’s ear as he whispered, “ _Doceo te loqui_.”  
  
Harry waited. And waited. And waited. Other than the tickle of the incantation itself as Malfoy breathed it into his ear, he hadn’t felt anything. And then a moment later, Malfoy stepped away and flipped his wand neatly into his pocket.  
  
Trying to ignore the way that his ear practically shivered after contact with the colder air, Harry shouted after him, “What the fuck was that, Malfoy?”  
  
Malfoy gave him a quizzical look, his eyes bright. “What was what?” Other late students pelted through the hall, and his smile grew broad. “I think you’re imagining things, Potter. And that you’re going to be late to Potions.” And he walked away, his grey cloak swirling behind him. Harry didn’t remember seeing the cloak before, and wondered if it had been a gift from someone in Slytherin, or even Slughorn, for winning the Quidditch game.  
  
Harry muttered a charm that should tell him if Malfoy had used any Dark Arts spells on him. The glow that leaped into being around his hands was bright and clear, though, and when Harry turned his head and squinted, he could see the same clear glow around his ear.  
  
That made it all the more perplexing, but Malfoy was right about one thing: he would be late to class. And a spell that did nothing was the same as no spell at all, in Harry’s opinion. He took another bite of his apple and scrambled off, thinking that Malfoy might have wanted to cause Harry a bit of fear just to show him that he wasn’t afraid after the way Harry had humiliated him.  
  
*  
  
“This is a very complicated potion, Harry!” Hermione whispered urgently in his ear as she went past him to the supply cupboard to gather all the ingredients they needed. “I hope that you’re ready.”  
  
Harry gave her a bland look and tried to look superbly ready, as if he’d thought about nothing but the potion all morning, instead of thinking about how her breath against his ear was so different from Malfoy’s.  
  
 _That’s stupid,_ Harry thought a moment later.  _One person’s breath can’t be different from another’s, unless it smells or something._  
  
He gave a sideways look at Malfoy, but Malfoy was sitting with Goyle—who he always spent time with, since Crabbe had died in the fire—and bending over a selection of roots they had to chop. Harry shook his head. Either Malfoy wasn’t as vengeful as Harry had always thought he was, or he was as mature as Harry now, and could recognize the end of a game when he saw one.  
  
“Harry.”  
  
The noise made Harry jerk around. It was a soft whisper, so gentle that he would have thought it impossible for him to hear in the first place, except that whoever spoke it had to be standing so close—  
  
But there was no one behind him. A few people gave him surprised looks, but then they bent over their potions again. Given how small Slughorn’s NEWT class was, there was plenty of space between the tables and plenty of chairs, and Harry could clearly see that no one could have stood exactly where they would have had to to talk into his ear. Unless they were hiding under the table, of course. But a swift glance convinced him that wasn’t the case.  
  
Uneasy, his hand playing with his wand, he turned back to making sure that the cauldron was clean. Hermione, or maybe the directions, had said something about that being important.  
  
“You’re the only one who can hear me, Harry. Remember that spell I cast on you earlier?”  
  
Harry felt his muscles stiffen. It was Malfoy’s voice. How could he not have known that at once? Probably because it was so soft that it hadn’t sounded like his. Malfoy’s voice was shrill when he chuckled, when he sneered, when he drawled. He wasn’t supposed to whisper in the first place, and Harry wasn’t supposed to be  _familiar_ with it when he did.  
  
“Yes, that one,” Malfoy said, and laughed into his ear. Even the laugh was different, warm and gusty and intimate. Harry darted one quick look sideways at Malfoy, but he still had his head bent over his roots, this time measuring them against one another. When he picked one up to throw into the cauldron, Harry squinted to see if his lips were moving, but didn’t notice anything.  
  
“Oh, don’t worry about this,” Malfoy said, in a tone of false concern. “No one else can hear me. I don’t need to speak aloud to speak to you, either. Do you know why, Harry? It’s  _magic_.”  
  
Harry gritted his teeth. Yes, there was that condescending tone he knew and hated. “Why do it at all?” he whispered beneath his breath. “Why—you have to know that we don’t want anything to do with each other, Malfoy. It’s just stupid to pretend that you do.”  
  
“No need to speak. I can hear the thoughts you direct to me. And I can feel the physical reactions, too,” he added, with a smugness that rang a faint warning bell in Harry’s mind. “Oh, yes, Harry, there’s so much I know about you now. I can feel the way your body moves. I can feel the way you stretch and flex. Mmmm.”  
  
Harry told himself that that sound was a stupid one to send a hammerblow of blood to his groin. He didn’t really  _know_ Malfoy, for God’s sake. And he hadn’t got an answer to his question. Their game was over.  
  
“ _You_  thought it was,” Malfoy answered, in a voice as dark as water at midnight. “I never said that I agreed.”  
  
Harry rolled his eyes and reached out his hand for the ingredients as Hermione came back to him. “Make sure that you cut those roots to the length of,” she began, and then paused and shook her head. “No, on second thought I’d better cut them. You crush the rose petals.” She handed him a thick, stinking bundle of flower petals.  
  
“I can feel what you’re feeling,” Malfoy whispered to him. “The way that your palms feel when they roll over those petals. They’re too soft, aren’t they? You’d rather be touching something hard.”  
  
Harry gritted his teeth. This was going to be more than unpleasant. Well, as soon as he got out of Potions class he would look up the countercurse.  
  
If Malfoy heard that thought, he chose to ignore it. “You want something hard,” he repeated, with a satisfied sigh at the back of his voice that made Harry twitch. “You want to see me in your bedroom, stripped to the skin, tied to the wall the way you had me the other night. Only, this time, I’m for  _you_  to have.”  
  
The image sprang into his mind as though called up by Harry’s libido. The bedroom was dark with only a single fire, and empty of the other boys, even of their beds. Malfoy was bound to the wall by a conjured spiderweb, entirely naked this time, and his cock shone flushed and full, the way Harry had briefly seen it the other night.  
  
 _But what did that matter?_ Harry asked himself a moment later.  _The game is over. And I was never attracted to Malfoy in the first place. I only wanted to humiliate him because he did the same thing to me._  
  
Unfortunately, he only had that thought after he’d caught his breath from the force of the image, and Malfoy’s warm, intimate laughter, moving over him like a pair of fingers pressed here and there against his skin, showed Harry that he didn’t believe it.  
  
“You might say that,” he breathed. “You might think it. But you know there was no reason to take your revenge on me that way unless you wanted the game to continue. You could have hexed me for daring to win at Quidditch, and  _that_ would have been enough. But something else pulled you close. You want me.”  
  
 _I want you broken and bleeding, you wanker,_ Harry thought fervently.  
  
“Such kinky tastes,” Malfoy hummed. “But no, I don’t think I share them. I think you’ve broken part of the web that tied me to the wall and ordered me to play with myself. And I reach down, with my arm shaking, to do that.”  
  
Harry closed his eyes. It had to do some good, right? He would do better if he couldn’t see this stupid Potions classroom that got in the way of what Malfoy was saying, right?  
  
Then he realized that he should want the opposite of that, for something to  _interfere_  with the vision Malfoy was trying to conjure for him instead of enhancing it, and opened his eyes quickly.  
  
Malfoy laughed in the back of his head, and the sound spread and burned along Harry’s nerves, making him feel as though everything beneath his skin stung and sang. “You want it,” he said. “You want me. You can see the motions that my hand would make along my cock, stroking myself, quick with nervousness at first and then slowing down. I’ve seen what’s in your eyes, you see. I know that I can affect you as much as you affect me.”  
  
Harry’s hands tightened on the petals. Hermione made a clucking sound and took them away. “Here, Harry,” she said. “You mix in the bicorn horn. Go  _slowly._ If you hurry up, the potion will be ruined.”  
  
“You have no idea what she means,” Malfoy whispered. “Because you aren’t here. You’re somewhere far away, concentrating on the way that I touch myself and the glistening drop that gathers at the tip of my cock.”  
  
Harry’s body arched forwards, and his groin brushed the table. That was when he really realized that it was swollen, and he had to swallow a cry. Again he looked sideways at Malfoy, and again Malfoy looked utterly normal and natural. Harry wondered murderously why  _he_ wasn’t being affected by this.  
  
“How do you know that I didn’t take the time to prepare some spells and glamours beforehand?” Malfoy promptly answered. Harry squirmed. He hated the way Malfoy could speak in his head almost more than he hated the words the git was speaking.  
  
“I’m affected by this,” Malfoy hissed, and his words played along the shells of Harry’s ears now like gentle fingertips touching the lobes. “More than you know. I would never have chosen a revenge like this if I wasn’t. I  _want_ you, Potter. And I can see in your eyes that you want me, too.”  
  
Harry closed his eyes so that he could swallow. He really didn’t need a distraction right now like Hermione prattling away beside him about how she hoped they made the potion right because she wanted so much to make it on her own someday.  
  
“You’re so affected that you let me go,” Malfoy said, and his voice had sunk. Harry found himself leaning forwards, cocking his head as he yearned after it. He wanted to hear. He  _had_ to hear. “You break the web and then take a step back. I can read the truth in your eyes. You don’t want a prisoner. You want someone who chooses you of his own free will, someone who will come to you, grace your bed, and teach you all he knows of pleasure.”  
  
Harry shivered. Malfoy’s words weren’t something he’d ever imagined when he wanked to images of Ginny or Cho or some faceless woman who he would marry. She would have to be good at Quidditch, of course, and not nonsensical about his heroic reputation. She would have to have glowing eyes and fair hair…  
  
“The way I do,” Malfoy said, and his voice raced and dived beside Harry’s thoughts, their exact companions, so that Harry couldn’t get away from them. “I touch you, one hand sliding around your chin, one hand down the side of your neck. I hold you still as I lean in and kiss that scar.”  
  
Harry jerked, his eyes fluttering, his mind returning to him as though someone had released it from prison. How could he have been so  _stupid_? he asked himself bitterly. Of course that was all Malfoy wanted, if he wanted anything at all besides revenge, to fuck someone who mattered. He was probably still too young to attract the attention of most people from the Ministry, so he chose the Boy-Who-Lived. That would give him bragging rights, if nothing else.  
  
“Are you always this sensitive?” Malfoy’s voice was still perfectly-paced, gently amazed and mocking now. “Of course I won’t kiss you or touch you if I only want  _that_. I would find some other way to go about it, and someone who would give me gifts and use their power, which you don’t seem inclined to. No, I’m kissing and touching the scar on your forehead for the same reason that I’m kissing and touching the rest of your face.”  
  
 _And what’s that, Malfoy?_ Harry thought back, trying to pretend that she was listening to Hermione as she lectured him about the consistency of the potion.  
  
“Because it’s there,” Malfoy said, “and part of you.”  
  
Harry shook his head. His breath was coming too fast for it to look normal. He was dimly aware of that. He wiped at his forehead and shrugged and smiled when Hermione gave him an anxious look.  
  
“Just a bit hot,” he said. “I’ll be glad when class is over.”  
  
“You’ll be burning by the time I’m through with you,” Malfoy sighed into his ear. “Someone to touch you, someone to hold you—those are fantasies of yours, Potter? Well, I’m doing that now. In fact, I have no intention of letting you go even if you ask me. Someone to always stand by your side…I’m here now.”  
  
Harry laughed breathlessly. As if he would really believe that! As if Malfoy could expect him to! Malfoy was over-confident, which Harry knew he had been before the war but hadn’t thought he was afterwards.  
  
Then again, Malfoy  _was_ the one who had shoved himself at Harry as if he assumed that Harry really wanted him, and touched him during the Quidditch game as if he had assumed there would be no retaliation. Perhaps Harry should change his opinion of the git.  
  
“I took the Snitch because it was there and it was too good an opportunity to miss,” Malfoy said. “But if I had simply wanted to distract you, I would have chosen some other technique. This matters to me, Potter. I do want you. The way things worked out, you have doubts, but you shouldn’t. I know exactly what I want. The Quidditch victory  _and_ you. There’s no reason for me to settle for less.”  
  
“Are you  _sure_ that you’re all right, Harry?” Hermione asked again.  
  
Harry made sure he nodded to her and ignored the way that Malfoy whispered to him. Who said he could trust anything the git said? This was only one more reason to distrust him, because he  _had_ to be lying about his motivations for touching Harry during the Quidditch game. It was the only reasoning Harry could accept. “I’m fine, Hermione,” he said. “Still a little upset that I lost the game, that’s all.”  
  
Hermione put a hand on his arm. “It’s only one game,” she said. “You still have the best chance of getting the Quidditch Cup, and you’ll achieve a lot more in the world than Malfoy ever will.”  
  
“You did lose the game.” Malfoy sighed, and Harry could feel the burning stream of that sigh over every part of his ear, making him clench his jaw. It wasn’t  _fair_. “You’ve lost all of them. At Quidditch and at life. If you still doubt me, Potter, then I’m going to make sure that you can’t anymore.”  
  
Without thinking, Harry put his hand defensively over the open mouth of their cauldron. He had to laugh a little when Hermione stared at him. “Just want to make sure that I get a good start on those achievements by brewing a good potion,” he told her.  
  
“I scorn to think so small,” Malfoy said, though with an undertone of regret that made Harry curl his lip. Of  _course_ Malfoy would say that after he was foiled from carrying out one of his evil plans. “I, Potter, am interested in what I can do to make you lose control and come in the middle of the classroom. You’ve lost.”  
  
Harry bit his tongue violently and resisted the urge to shake his head. Hermione was already suspicious enough.  _You can’t do that,_ he thought, with such loud clarity that there was no way Malfoy would miss it.  
  
“I can,” Malfoy said, and his voice had sunken and taken on a breathless character that at once made Harry want to listen more and to be far, far away. “I’m sliding my fingers around your neck, your cheek, your ears. I want you to imagine me with hands that are too swift for you to see, or resist. I urge you back towards the bed, and you don’t fight me. You go along. I know what your eyes would look like when you wank, when you’re sliding your hand along your cock and they’re wide and drowning dark with desire. They’re hardly green. You’ve got a tiny ring of jade around your pupils.”  
  
Harry shuddered once. How did Malfoy  _know_ that? Harry had masturbated once in front of a mirror back at the beginning of term—he didn’t really know why, except that he was curious—and watched himself react and arch and flush and  _come_. He wouldn’t have described his eyes as poetically as Malfoy had, but that was what they looked like.  
  
“I nudge you backwards,” Malfoy said, and ended the sentence with a tiny moan. Harry bit his lip savagely. He didn’t want to admit that he found the sound more erotic than if Malfoy had let go more, but he knew Malfoy would know it now, since he would have heard the thought. “Soft sheets beneath your shoulders and hardness in front—my erection nudging yours. I bend down and fasten my lips on yours, and your mouth opens under me, warm and sweet and pliant.”  
  
Harry snarled beneath his breath. He was not  _pliant._ Malfoy was obviously mixing Harry up with his fantasies of girls. That thought helped Harry retreat a bit, hold his distance. Malfoy wasn’t going to seduce him when his seduction techniques were this shite.  
  
“Oh, really?” Malfoy’s voice had a tone of amusement, but it was mingled with the lust he was speaking with, and that turned it into something else, something bright and dark, hot and thrilling. Harry found himself arching his hips before he thought about it, pressing closer to an invisible flame. “Really, Harry? Have you thought about how much someone else might admire you, for carrying the hard burdens all these years? Have you never dreamed about letting go and letting someone else take charge for a while? Have you never thought about someone holding you down, firmly but gently, and moving above you, giving you what you want without you having to ask for it?”  
  
Harry leaned forwards to stare into the cauldron, hoping desperately that that would hide his swelling cock from Hermione.  
  
Yeah, he’d thought that. And now Malfoy knew, and it was like having the deepest, darkest place of his soul exposed to his worst enemy.  
  
“I won’t hurt you,” Malfoy said. “I won’t rip you to shreds. I know what you like, remember? And I know that you like being held in someone’s hand like this,  _capable_  of being crushed, but with no assurance that it will happen. You’ve wanted someone you can trust for a long time, haven’t you? You’ve wanted someone who would look at you and not flinch away from what he found there.”  
  
 _I’ve wanted a girl,_ Harry thought, but the words were quiet in his head after the profound silence that Malfoy’s words had induced in him, like someone dropping a rock into a pool.  
  
Malfoy paused smugly for a short time, and then flowed on with what he’d been saying, as though he realized he had proved his point. Harry was holding his breath with impatience for Malfoy to go on, he realized.  
  
“I press you down and climb on top of you. I don’t touch you with more than my thighs at first, and my breath, the way that you held me captive with yours in the corridor. I convey appreciation with my eyes, and you know that you’re more than acceptable to me.  
  
“I reach down then, and touch your cock, resting my hand there as though I’ve known it all my life. Then I slide my fingers back and forth. You can feel them, every inch of them, callus and tapering nail and all, and the cloth presents no barrier.”  
  
Harry made a desperate little sound. Hermione waved a hand frantically. “Professor Slughorn, I think Harry’s sick!”  
  
Between Harry’s furious denials that he was  _not_ , and Professor Slughorn’s suggestions that, since he did look a little peaky, he go and lie down in the infirmary, wove Malfoy’s voice, light and gentle and merciless.  
  
“When I brush my fingers back and forth, it’s so slowly that you can barely feel a change from the stillness at first. But then my fingers go faster, and I hiss, because I can’t stop myself. If you can feel me, I can feel you, too. And I know how fast the blood in beating in your cock, and how it’s thickening, and the wetness that’s crowding along the tip.”  
  
Harry croaked and blinked and shook his head. “I—I’m all right, sir,” he told Professor Slughorn. He was trying not to let the groans that he could feel gathering in his chest come out. Malfoy’s words weren’t really visual, he thought, and weren’t really exciting—or shouldn’t be. But he could  _feel_ them, soft and warm against his skin at the same moment that he was imagining the drag of his fingers.  
  
“Are you sure, Mr. Potter? I still think you should consider it.” Slughorn’s hand patted him heavily on the shoulder.  
  
It was still less real than the hissing and sighing Malfoy was doing into his ear. “Oh, Harry, the way you  _feel_. You’re wet; I can feel the spot against my hand. I let one hand linger there, and let my other one work you, up and down, curving and stretching and squeezing. I can touch your balls when I dare to pause. I pinch and yank down near the head, and I can feel your balls drawing up.”  
  
 _They are, too,_ Harry thought in despair. He was taking rapid breaths despite his attempt to convince Slughorn and Hermione that he was all right. He wondered if biting the heel of his hand would help, and then imagined the diagnostic spells that Hermione would cast and nearly laughed aloud.  
  
Not for long. Malfoy’s voice was swept in like a devastating wind. “Your orgasm’s coming. I can feel it building, we’re connected so closely, and I know that I’m going to come from watching  _you_  come. The pleasure’s making me weak. I hardly know how I keep my hand moving. The cloth’s in the way. I wish that I had got you naked, but to feel you like this, when your coming will be an explosion of wetness and heaviness against my palm, your cock sagging, satisfied and spent…”  
  
Harry lost the rest of the words, if there were any, in the whirlwind that shook him then. He bowed his head, eyes shut. He was still trying to resist, but his hips moved back and forth regularly now, and his cock ached, and he knew he was going to lose the battle not to lean forwards in a moment.  
  
“Oh, God, I want it,” Malfoy said, and finished with the kind of gasping grunt that he might give when he was coming.  
  
Harry lost the battle. He leaned forwards, pushed his hips firmly against the table, and slid himself back and forth, bringing friction to his cock.  
  
He came so hard that he could feel the drain all over his body, his muscles locking and then going limp, his teeth aching as he clamped them shut and then falling apart, his hands relaxing in desire. He continued to hump the table long after he should have stopped, unable to because it felt so  _good_.  
  
He kept his eyes shut. He could hear the chatter of his classmates, which meant that not  _everyone_ had noticed what had happened, but he had no desire to face the horrified stares of Hermione or the knowing looks from Malfoy.  
  
“You should see yourself, Potter,” Malfoy breathed. “So red. So wet. I know it, and the knowledge is not for anyone else to share.”  
  
Harry had to agree wholeheartedly. He was mortified at the notion that someone else would figure out why he looked the way he did. He swallowed and opened his eyes, though, because it wasn’t in his nature to hide.  
  
Hermione just gave him the same concerned look as before, and Slughorn had moved on hastily to another pair of students who looked ready to melt their cauldron. Hermione said, “Are you  _sure_ that you don’t need to go the hospital wing, Harry? You’re looking awfully red.”  
  
“She won’t look down,” Malfoy whispered. “She’s not interested in you that way. If she was, I would already have hexed her. I don’t share.”  
  
Harry took a deep breath and shook his head. “I’ll be fine, Hermione,” he said, and turned back to face the cauldron again. “But I’ve had a lot to deal with lately. I think I’ve lost where we were in the potion. Can we start again?”  
  
Hermione gave in to the familiar, and, right now, entirely necessary—as far as Harry was concerned—urge to scold him. While her words flowed past his ears, and he nodded and mumbled, he shot a look at Malfoy.  
  
Malfoy was watching him from the corner of one eye, and he gave a single smile, deep and content. His face was a faint pink. Harry couldn’t tell if he had come or not.  
  
“Next time,” Malfoy said, “I will.”  
  
Harry would have said that there wouldn’t be a next time, except now he knew that was a lie as much as Malfoy did. There needed to be payback for this. Malfoy had chosen to humiliate him in a sexual way, and Harry would do the same thing.  
  
“I can hear your thoughts. What makes you think you can take me by surprise?”  
  
Harry simply turned away. He didn’t have to think of his revenge now. He could wait.  
  
And in the meantime, he would Vanish the cooling mess in his pants.  
  
 **The End.**


End file.
